


Blindfold

by silentfort



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, Communication, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, No beta we die like mne, Safewords, Touch-Starved, everyone's a switch apparently, imperfect sex, no face reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 07:02:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22291951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentfort/pseuds/silentfort
Summary: “What’s this for?” he’d asked. And she’d closed her eyes, placed one hand over them, and waited. His fingers had taken her wrist, he’d taken her hand in his, and even through the helm she could hear his voice shake when he whispered, “Look at me.”
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Omera (Star Wars)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 129





	Blindfold

Omera sits on the edge of her pallet, watching him as he moves around the room. For someone encumbered so entirely by metal, he always surprises her with his silence. Evening sounds have been and gone, the night is fully dark. As he rolls down the blind against the faint starlight and the shimmer of lamps from other houses in the village, the gleam of the lamp beside her seems more and more insignificant. Finally he ties back each side of the curtain across the doorway, hefting a storage crate as if it weighs nothing and setting it down to prevent any accidental entrance, with barely a whisper of sound.

She takes a deep breath. It seems loud.

He stands for a moment with his back to her, the hem of his cape hanging still and lamplight gleaming along the rim of his helmet. Then he turns. The helm tilts as he regards her.

What’s his expression like, she wonders? What’s hers?

“We don’t have to do this,” he says. “You don’t.”

“I know. But I want to.”

He pulls the sash from somewhere in his armour and her eyes are drawn to it immediately. She thinks of days ago, when she’d pulled it from her pocket and laid it over his gloved palm, watching his helm as if she could read some emotion there.

 _“What’s this for?”_ he’d asked. And she’d closed her eyes, placed one hand over them, and waited. His fingers had taken her wrist, he’d taken her hand in his, and even through the helm she could hear his voice shake when he whispered, _“Look at me.”_

And she had, opening her eyes to see him somehow closer to her, leaning toward her as if she were magnetic.

“Are you sure?” he asks now, as he had then. As if he can’t believe she’s offering him this.

She holds out her hand to him, waiting until he comes close enough that she can take his hand in hers. Omera looks up at him, seeing the vague shape of her own lamplit face reflected in his visor. She squeezes the fingers that hold the sash. The blindfold. “Yes. Are you?”

He makes a faint sound, amused or exasperated she can’t tell. “I am.” He kneels before her, the slit in his helm level with her eyes. She can hear his breathing, just a little louder. Just a little faster. It’s likely he hasn’t noticed the change.

But then, she’s suddenly aware of the hitch in her own breathing, and she feels herself flush.

He lifts gloved hands to her cheeks, the stiff fabric rough against her skin as he frames her face. The blindfold unfurls. “Close your eyes,” he says, and she does.

Cloth against her eyelids. He smooths it across her skin, reaching to knot it snugly at the back of her head, level with the braids that keep her hair out of her face while she works. Leather creaks, and she feels his glove against her cheek again.

“Is that comfortable?”

She tilts her head, pressing against his hand. Her closed eyes cannot open and the sensation is strange \- not unpleasant, but unfamiliar. She takes a moment to breathe, to smell the armour polish and leather and beskar. What will he smell like under all that?

“I’m good,” she answers.

He lets go of her face, and there’s a sense of more space around her as she realises he’s leaned away. A small sound. The darkness is suddenly more absolute.

“Did you just turn out the lamp?”

“I did. I thought you couldn’t see?”

“I can’t. But there’s dark and then there’s dark. Maybe you’ve lived too long with city lights.”

“Maybe. I expect I’ll find out soon enough.”

“Meaning?”

“The helmet lets me see in different spectrums. Right now I’m seeing in thermals, based on how warm things are. Once the helmet’s off we might run into some trouble.”

Some part of her registers he’s made a joke but most of her is distracted by the fact he’s currently seeing her with heat vision. Her face already feels warm, as she blushes further can he see the difference?

A pause. A rustle of cloth, and she feels his hand cup her shoulder. “Are you alright?”

She drops her head to the side, seeking contact with his hand, and when he lifts it to frame her face again she covers his gloved fingers in hers. “It’s just a bit disorienting.”

“Sorry. Should I be telling you what I’m doing?”

“At first, yes,” she smirks. “I think after a while I’ll be able to figure it out myself.”

There’s silence as he stays still. Looking at her? She raises her eyebrows, feeling the blindfold shift.

She hears a breath that might be a laugh, and the floorboards creak as he stands, keeping her hand in his to pull her to her feet. “Well first, I was going to undress you. That alright?”

The ‘yes please’ gets stuck in her throat. She nods.

“Do you often lose your words?”

She shakes her head, feeling her face heat again.

“Hm,” he squeezes her fingers gently, “how about this? When I ask if you’re good, you tap my hand? Like this,” and there’s a soft impact on the back of her hand as he taps it with his thumb. “How’s that?”

She laughs quietly, feeling like the sound is too large and bright for the quiet room. She feels ridiculous. But she finds his hand in the dark, and taps it anyway.

“Good.”

His voice is like sliding into a hot spring after a long day’s work. Some part of her thrills at the praise.

His hands release hers, and she feels him step closer as his fingertips run up her arms. Cloth whispers under leather. Her arms bend automatically and her hands find his waist, the bulky shapes of the pouches on his belt and the cool smoothness of metal. He frames her shoulders in his hands, scoops the long curtain of her hair aside and lets it fall down her chest.

“I’m sorry,” she starts, turning her head to follow the movement. “Should I braid it back?”

“No,” he murmurs, the word thick. “Please.”

Her mouth goes dry.

He smooths his hands down her back to her waist, pausing to untie the strings of her apron. She runs fingertips over his belt, but the catch eludes her. As the folds of her dress relax and he slips the apron aside, she bites her lip.

“Give me your hands.”

She lets go of the belt, turns her hands palm up. He cradles one hand in both of his, and she feels the laces on her wrists loosen. He releases one, then the other, slipping them over her hands delicately, then steps away. Bereft of contact, she finds herself reaching for him.

“Where are you?”

“I’m here.”

And he’s in front of her again, hands on her upper arms. The floorboards under her bare feet shift with his weight. She leans into it.

“I’m going to take off your dress now. Is that alright?”

Her hand reaches out, and her knuckles find the cool beskar chestplate. She taps twice.

“Good.”

She feels the material of her gown being gathered, lifted. She raises her arms without needing to be asked, suddenly impatient for this part to be done. As soon as the collar is clear of her head she’s already reaching for the tie at her waist of her trousers.

Gloved fingertips brush her shoulder, “Omera -”

The knot undone, she pushes at the waistband and feels the pants slide down her legs. Whatever he was going to say goes unsaid, and the hand on her shoulder clenches tight. She takes a deep breath, feeling the curtain of her hair against one cheek as she looks up to where he must be looking at her.

“This alright?”

The hand on her shoulder relaxes a little. One finger taps twice.

She laughs then, aware of the nervous edge to the sound but loving the freedom of it all the same. It’s been years since she’s been naked like this in front of anyone. It’s intoxicating. She reaches out, knuckles bumping into the chestplate again, and tries to orient herself enough to find his gunbelt.

His hand slides down her arm, catches her wrist. “It’d be better,” he clears his throat, “if you let me manage this. It’s complicated.”

“Alright.”

He squeezes her hand, and she feels the floorboards shift again. “I’ll just be over in the corner.”

“Alright.” And she stands there in the absolute dark behind the blindfold, hands empty at her sides, listening. Cloth rustles, metal thunks. Night air sighs across her skin, drafts from the curtained doorway and through the thatch. Metal on metal. She imagines him stacking the armour pieces against the far wall. Carefully she bends down, finds where her trousers are pooled around her ankles and steps out of them, tosses them aside.

A louder thunk. Somehow heavier, more serious. Her head lifts, and she strains her ears to hear the new sound, under the rumpling of stiff cloth. His breath. Without the helmet.

His voice, when it comes, seems somehow younger. “I see what you mean about dark.”

She straightens, reaches out an open hand. “Here. I’m this way.”

He huffs a laugh but she keeps talking, murmuring repetitively until something brushes against her palm. Something warm, and smooth. She spreads her fingertips, “This is you?”

He doesn’t answer. His breath, so much closer now, is just a shudder. A fumbling hand finds her wrist, callouses almost as rough as the leather gloves, and his thumb taps the back of her hand twice.

She takes a small step forward, both hands on his bare chest now, feeling his heart thudding as if it’s trying to escape, his skin almost feverishly warm. It’s been years since she’s been with anyone. How long has it been for him?

Both his hands are on her wrists now, hands nearly large enough to encircle them entirely. She slides her hands up his chest, over the ridge of his collarbone. The base of his throat is fuzzy with neglected stubble. His pulse slams into her fingertips. His jaw is clenched. She cups his cheek in her hand and he presses against it, like something wild that wants to be tamed.

She pauses there, hands framing his face and his breath on her lips. “You good?”

Tap, tap.

She leans in, holding his jaw in one hand and slipping the other around to the back of his head, her fingers combing through his hair. He makes a sound, so soft she hardly hears it, then her lips are on his and they’re kissing. It’s warm, and so soft, and she’s grateful for the dark that hides the flush on her cheeks. She’d forgotten kissing could be like this. His tongue touches the corner of her mouth and she parts her lips with a sigh that’s almost a sob, pulling him closer, kissing him deeper. His hands seize on her wrists, he opens his mouth willingly. She tugs gently on his hair and his head falls back with a moan that seems to take him by surprise.

“You alright?”

Tap, tap.

Her thumb, brushing his cheek, taps back.

His hands shift up her arms then, warm enough to leave goosebumps in their wake, barely hesitating at the ripple of a blaster scar on her right bicep. He cups her shoulders, slides one hand down to her hip, and gently draws her closer.

Something bumps against her stomach and his breath hitches. She smiles against his mouth. “Can I help you with that?”

He pulls his head back from her, and she can hear the answering smile in his voice, “Not just yet.”

“Something you’d like to do first?”

He chuckles darkly. “All the things.”

 _Oh, that sounds like a good idea._ Her hand slides from his cheek to his throat, to his chest. She finds the thrumming heat of his heartbeat, and taps.

His voice rumbles through her palm, "Lie down.”

With her own pulse loud in her ears, she obeys. The blanket feels cool against her skin, and she shivers at the contrast when he lies down beside her and she feels the heat radiating from him. His hand covers her hip.

“Still good?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. Now,” there’s a whisper of contact on her belly, his hair soft and his cheek warm. “What I’d like to do is put my mouth on you. How’s that sound?”

 _Oh, that sounds like a_ very _good idea._ She reaches down, strokes his hair back from his face. Taps the crown of his head. He chuckles again. The blankets shift as he moves, laying a path of kisses up to her sternum, his breath hot and damp and his lips soft. She cradles the back of his head, his neck, tracing the ridges of scars across his shoulders and arms. Some of them might be burns, others from weapons she doesn’t recognise, but it’s hard to tell with just her fingertips. He smiles against the curve of her left breast.

“You’re curious.”

She strokes his hair again. “Just comparing. You have a few more than I do.”

His lips are on her again, a touch of tongue, then his breath ghosting across her nipple. “Surely we can talk about that later.”

“I doubt tha-” she breaks off as he cups her breast in one broad hand and delicately laves her nipple with his tongue. She lets her head fall back onto the pillow, inhaling deeply. “That’s cheating.” He hums, amused, and she drags her nails across his shoulders to hear him groan.

“Now who’s cheating?” he murmurs into her skin, his cheek dragging softly down her stomach to her hip, facial hair tickling and his lips soothing as he kisses the crest of the bone there. Her knees part almost without her thinking it and he settles between them, hands running over her thighs.

Her hands rest on his head, fingers tangling in the shaggy curls of his hair. Is it light or dark? Is he pale or tan? What kind of picture would it make, his hand on her skin?

Neither of them will ever know. Somehow that seems right.

He kisses along the ridge of her hip, drawing slowly closer to her cunt. It feels like she’s flinching at every point of contact, already overwhelmed by nothing more than anticipation. He draws the back of his knuckles up the inside of her thigh, brushes his thumb against the damp hair at the apex.

“You good?” He sounds like she feels. Her fingers find the soft place behind his ear. She taps gently.

When his fingers part her folds, her hips jerk upwards, a gasp escaping her. His hands are just enough to ground her, skin just on the right side of rough, and then his mouth is on her and she sighs. His tongue and lips are so, so soft, tasting and exploring. When he slips a finger into her she cants her hips to meet him. Her hand makes a fist in his hair, slowly, and when he moans again she grins.

“You -” he gasps, “you good?”

She swallows. “More, please.”

She feels his face against her thigh, feels the air as he inhales sharply. Then his fingertips are on her again, pressing in, and she lets out a long, low, sigh as she feels them inside her.

“I wish I could see you like this,” he whispers hoarsely. “You sound so beautiful.” When his lips touch her again her hips jerk, her feet pressing into the mattress in an effort to raise herself closer to him. He presses into her harder, mouth open on her and fingers spreading inside her, and she makes fists in the blankets, tossing her head.

It’s good, it’s so good, but - it’s not enough. She reaches for him, finds his arm where he’s holding her across her hips, and taps hard on his hand.

He stills, lifts his head. “You good?”

“Yes, I just want something else. Is that alright?”

“What do you need?”

“You. Come up here, and lie down.”

Gently he withdraws his hand, and the blankets shift as he moves again. With careful hands she reaches to find him, mapping out where he lies on his back beside her, hands folded on his chest. She lifts one, bringing his damp fingers to her mouth and kissing them, tasting herself. His breath shudders out of him. She kisses his palm, his wrist, then lowers his hand to press it against her breast. Again that deep, almost guttural sigh. She smiles, wondering what other sounds she can get from him. She traces fingertips down his arm, across his chest, feeling the muscles of his stomach jolt under her hand.

“I -”

She stops. “You good?”

There’s silence for a long moment, then his other hand finds hers. Tap, tap.

“Alright then. Should I be telling you what I’m doing?”

His stomach jerks as he huffs out an amused breath. “At first, yes.”

“So I was thinking I’d put my hands on you. And my mouth.”

His fingers tighten around her wrist. “Alright.”

“After that I’d like to ride you like a stolen speeder.”

He laughs, and the sound is impossible to describe. It sounds rare.

She grins, holding the wrist of the hand that’s cradling her breast, leans her weight into the touch. “Sound good?”

He squeezes her wrist again, and the laughter lingers in his voice. “Fuck, yes.”

She strokes her fingertips down his stomach. He feels lean, all hard planes and ropes of muscle under soft skin. His breathing grows shallower as she skirts his hipbone, and when she traces the outside of his thigh he keens so softly she’s not sure he knows he’s doing it.

How long has it been for him? Has he ever been with someone quite like this - fully naked and exposed?

She brings her hand back up his thigh, her thumb bumping against the base of his cock before she wraps her fingers around it.

His hand, where he’s touching her breast, is trembling. She takes that hand in hers, kisses his knuckles, and lets him clench his fist around hers as tight as he needs to.

The skin of his shaft is so, so smooth under her palm, his breath settling into shallow gasps as she strokes him. His hips shift restlessly as if seeking more, and she moves a little further down the bed. As her hair falls across his leg he keens again, his hand spasming in hers.

“Still good?”

"Y-es,” he manages, between one breath and another.

She dips her head, waiting until his finger taps her hand, then takes him in her mouth. He gasps, then stops breathing entirely as she smooths her tongue along the length of him, tasting salt and heat, his skin unutterably soft. She hums, pleased, and he swallows air like he’s trying not to drown.

She takes as much as she can, dropping low until her lips meet her fingers fisted at his base, then rising to swirl her tongue around the head of his cock, over and over. He flinches, whimpers, and the hand that’s not holding hers comes up to stroke shakily over her hair.

She laps at him, feeling decadent, and when she comes up for air she strokes him firmly, spreading wetness along the length of his cock. His hips jerk up to meet her hand and he makes a muffled noise in his throat.

“If -” he gasps, tries again, “if you’re hoping for something else you’d better get to it.”

She can feel the smirk broaden across her face. “I plan to.”

He makes that breathless almost-laugh again, “You sound very pleased with yourself.”

“I am.” She shifts her weight, moving his hand to her thigh as she throws her other leg over him, stroking her hands up his chest to find him in the darkness. She touches his collarbone, his throat. His cheek. Leans down. “Is that alright?”

His hand covers hers, skims up her arm to her shoulder, his fingertips brush her face. She’s suddenly so much more conscious of the blindfold, of the places it doesn’t let him touch. And how much she wants him to.

He lifts his head, his nose bumping into her cheek before his mouth finds hers, lips parted and his tongue flicking to taste her. To taste himself on her. He smiles, a curl of lips against hers, and something inside her breaks. Are there any left alive who’ve seen his smile? She reaches down between them, feels for his cock, and moves back onto him in one motion.

His hand on her cheek spasms and his cry is muffled as she kisses him harder. She steadies herself with one hand beside his head and he strokes her hair back from her face as she rocks back and forth on her knees, her breasts brushing his chest with every movement. He gasps for air but she doesn’t let up kissing him, his mouth, his jaw, his throat. She groans to feel the fullness of him, filling her up, smooth and deep and somehow as rich as his voice.

Her hand finds his throat again, slides to cradle him by the back of the neck, and he whimpers in her ear. There are words in it but she can’t quite understand them, they’re not all in standard, “ _gedet'ye_ _-_ ” he says, and “ _nu’liser_ _-_ ” and then his hands are stuttering over her hair as his back arches, and she can feel him pulsing inside her in a long, delicious, silence. 

Slowly, she drops her forehead to his shoulder, listening to him breathe. He seems to drink the air in lungfuls, his hands fallen away from her. She blinks, smiling - then freezes. The blindfold has fallen away. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to find the air to tell him.

His lips brush her ear. “Hey,” he whispers, still sounding winded. “Don’t panic. It’s still dark.”

“I have better night vision than you do.”

“That’s true,” fingertips touch her forehead, her cheek. “You have your eyes closed?”

“Yes.”

“Keep them closed,” he murmurs, and he gently lifts her head, smoothing back her tangled hair from her damp forehead. There’s a brush of contact on one eyelid, then another, and she trembles as she realises he’s just kissed them.

The trust he’s putting in her… she bites her lip, almost wanting to cry.

“Are you alright?”

She fumbles for his hand, squeezes it, “Yes.”

“Here, lie down. Your legs will cramp.”

Gingerly, eyes still tight shut, she sits up. When she lifts herself off him she can’t suppress a full-body shiver, still oversensitive and unfinished.

“Ah,” his voice is rueful, “you didn’t -?”

“No.”

“Should I -?”

“No, just -” she finds her way down beside him, lies on her back. “Would you hold me, like this?”

He rolls closer, lifting himself on one elbow to lean over her. He kisses her cheek, her mouth. His broad hand covers her belly, she can feel the heat of him all along her, and it’s perfect.

She parts her knees, reaching down to take his wrist.

He lifts his head, she guesses that he’s trying to see her face. “What can I do?”

“Use your fingers, like before?”

He kisses her again, his lips curving against her jaw, and whispers, “Yes.” His hand slides down over her folds and she bites back a whine, gritting her teeth at the perfectly rough drag of his skin on hers. She moves her own hand as well, fingertips finding familiar positions. He slips into her, kisses her gently, and she begins to trace circles around herself, over and over. She knows her own body, and this won’t take long. His fingers fill her, his hand cups itself over hers, not quite touching, and he kisses her again and again, lips and tongue and the occasional contact of teeth, and she keeps her eyes squeezed shut.

If she opened them, they’d meet his.

She won’t.

Her heels press into the mattress, her hips rising into their hands. She gasps silently for air, and falls apart.

He kisses her slowly through it, gradually sliding his fingers out of her.

After an exhausted space of quiet, she hears a rustle of material and feels him press something into her hand. “Thought you might need a washcloth.”

She clears her throat, awkwardly using it. “Thank you. I thought it was the blindfold.”

“No need for that. I’ll get dressed.”

“No,” she sits up and reaches out for him blindly, the back of her hand meeting what might be his arm. “Stay.”

“I should check on the kid.”

“Cara’s watching him.” She bites her lip, hating how his voice sounds so distant so quickly. “Please. Just for a little while.”

Silence. She can hear nightbirds in the distant woods, insects over the krill ponds, muted voices from one of the other village houses. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak.

Material shifts. She feels his hand find her arm, trace up to her shoulder. “Turn your head this way.”

She obeys. Fabric covers her closed eyes again and she leans into it, smiling with relief. “Thank you.”

He makes that not-laugh again, and his fingers brush her chin as he leans in and kisses her cheek. “Weird thing to be thankful for.”

“Not at all,” she catches his hand, kisses his palm. “I’m thankful for you.”

And even though he’s gone by morning, he’s there until she falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Mando'a words are cobbled from Wookieepedia and are "please" and "can't"
> 
> The idea of tapping as a nonverbal safeword comes from the incredible "Rite of Movement" by hauntedjaeger.
> 
> For disaster blogging of various fandoms you can find me at acrossthetracksrebounding.tumblr.com


End file.
